The Best Picture Project

Sunday, October 12, 2014

Every guys loves The Godfather. It’s the ultimate dude
movie. It’s our rebuttal to the chick flick. It’s our Beaches. It’s our Steel
Magnolias. It’s our Pride and Prejudice. The movie review aggregator site
Rotten Tomatoes does a recurring feature where they ask actors and filmmakers
to list their five favorite films. And literally every guy that participates in
this Rotten Tomatoes feature includes The Godfather on their list. But the
thing is, these dudes don’t just salt and pepper a bit of praise on The
Godfather, they go wild for it like Augustus Gloop in the chocolate room. It’s
their cinematic idol that they all worship. In the film You’ve Got Mail Tom
Hanks tells Meg Ryan “the Godfather is the sum of all wisdom. The Godfather is
the answer to any question. What should I pack for my summer vacation? ‘Leave
the gun, take the cannoli.’” And that about sums it up right there, thanks Tommy.

Just as it’s no understatement to say The Godfather is on every
guy’s list of favorite films, The Godfather is also the rare film that
indisputably defines a cinematic genre. It’s really is a landmark in the
cinematic firmament because before 1972 there was no film like it. But since
1972 there have been waves of films that have borrowed themes, motifs, mood and
whatever else from The Godfather. The genealogy of every mafia and gangster
film has the DNA of The Godfather coursing through its celluloid veins. Even
cinema’s little brother television has found itself serving up shows that
invariably tip their hat to The Godfather. There would be no Sopranos without
the Corleones.

Directed by Francis Ford Coppola, The Godfather pretty much
became a turned key in the ignition of the careers of all those who starred in
it: Al Pacino, James Caan, Robert Duvall and Diane Keaton. As for Marlon
Brando, it’s difficult to quantify how much the role of Vito revived his
stalling career. But at the very least it represented a grand-slam comeback for
him. So much so that I almost don’t even remember that he starred in The Island
of Dr. Moreau (I said almost).

The Godfather received a gargantuan hall of 11 Oscar
nominations. Given the legendary status this film has accrued since its
release, it’s kind of startling to know that it ended up making an offer that
only three golden boys couldn’t refuse. Although it did nab the big prize for
Best Picture in 1972, three total statuettes somehow seems paltry for a film of
The Godfather’s magnitude and quality. To be fair, I should point out that
Pacino, Caan and Duvall were all lumped into the Best Supporting Actor
category, meaning they pretty much cannibalized each other’s chances of
emerging victorious. But over the years, other aspects of the film, from its
score to its edgy-for-its-time cinematography, have generated a lot of
discussion and analysis, not to mention the copious amounts of ink lauding
their artistry. So it’s puzzling to me that The Godfather didn’t scoop up more
Oscars in the below-the-line categories.

In terms of Oscar trivia, Brando’s win for Best Actor
heightened the actor’s decision to boycott the ceremony and his refusal to
collect his trophy. His absence created an even bigger stir when he sent Native
American rights activist Sacheen Littlefeather to the podium in his stead,
where she proceeded to explain Brando’s refusal of the Oscar stemmed from his
objections to the way Native Americans had been portrayed in film and on
television. Littlefeather’s speech was met largely with applause, punctuated by
some boos, making it a distinguished moment in Oscar history.

In addition to Brando, Pacino also stayed in his jammies the
night of the Oscars, apparently pissed off that he was demoted from the Best
Actor category in favor of Brando because Pacino had more screen time. I get that
argument, but boo freaking hoo Pacino. Don’t be such a divo. The reality is
that screen time has never been and shouldn’t be the only guideline by which
someone is considered a leading actor or supporting actor. The fact is that The
Godfather is an ensemble piece. So yeah, Vito disappears for long swaths of the
film’s running time, but so does Michael. However, timing debates aside, the
plain reality of the situation is that Brando had a more memorable role and he
crushed it like a bawwwwss. Not to diminish Pacino’s work, but Brando’s
performance has truly attained iconic status. Whenever anyone hears the title
The Godfather, they instantly picture Brando’s Vito sitting in his dark, wood-paneled
office contemplating, slightly brushing his puffed out cheeks with the back of
his fingers; or else they hear Vito say, in his raspy voice, “I’m gonna make
him an offer he can’t refuse.” So sorry Pacino, but boycotting the Oscars is
total sour grapes buddy. Be a team player and have respect for the fact that
your costar blew you and the rest of the film’s cast right out of the water,
which, when considering how amazing the performances were, is nothing to hang
your head in shame over.

Anyway, at this point in the post is where I typically
proceed to recap the film’s plot. But if you’re not already familiar with at
least the basic story of The Godfather, I’m certainly not going to recap it for
you hear. Simply put, you need to elevate the level of your cultural literacy.
It’s one of the most famous films of all time, and if you don’t know the plot,
then get your act together and go see it. Whatever “priorities” you have going
on in your life can wait, capiche?!

Like I said earlier, The Godfather is an ensemble film
filled with a police lineup of standout performances. For anyone who loves
cinema, few things are more satisfying than watching a film where everyone from
the main characters to the shoe-shiner level roles with one line all deliver
the goods. It’s one thing all the truly great films have in common. Of course
Brando is spectacular, while Pacino and Cann are terrific in every sense of the
word. But in watching The Godfather this time around, I was struck by a new
appreciation for Duvall’s performance as the family attorney Tom Hagan. It’s
definitely a more subtle and quiet performance, especially side by side with Caan’s
explosive Sonny Corleone. But Duvall illustrates a hushed strength through Tom’s
loyalty and gratitude to Vito, making him a compelling character. It’s Tom’s
calm demeanor and ability to eschew boiling over that makes watching Duvall no
less than thrilling to watch because you get a sense that lurking beneath the surface
is a checked intensity capable of anything. This creates an interesting type of
suspense because as the action takes a new turn and the world for the Corleones
changes you find yourself wondering how Tom is going to react. Perhaps the best
example of this is Tom’s visit with a naïve Hollywood producer, who hotly and abrasively
turns away Vito’s request to cast his godson in the part of a film. To lean on
him a little, Tom gets creative and tucks the producer into his satin bed with
the severed head of his prized stallion. Classic.

There is one complaint about The Godfather that I’m gonna
raise. It’s a small, nitpicky issue, but I’m still going to address it: Did
they have to make Diane Keaton look so awful? I’m a big fan of DK, and I think she
owns a certain beauty that is unique among Hollywood starlets. But the hair and
makeup departments seemed completely hell bent on submerging her into
underneath the sickest looking wigs and nastiest makeup the 1970s had to offer.
From head to toe she looks like something the cat dragged in, took one long
look at and dragged back out from sheer disgust. I know I’m starting to sound
like Joan Rivers and the fashion police, but I really couldn’t get passed how
wrong Keaton looked all throughout the film. Everyone else looked stylishly
appropriate, which made Keaton’s look seem all the more neglected. Fortunately
she is a talented actress who still managed to emerge from the experience with
a great performance. But seriously someone from the wig shop should have been
wacked for botching this deal.

Favorite Line: I
gotta go with “I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse.” I mean that’s it.
There’s nothing more to say. Ciao.

Sunday, August 17, 2014

It seems like anything I had ever heard or read about The French Connection is always centered on the film’s famous car chase scene. And
straight up, it is a pretty great scene that still holds. Its unvarnished
appeal and drawn out suspense give it this sense of realism often missing in
today’s architecturally slick action sequences. But while the car chase scene
hogs all of the critical attention, one thing is oft overlooked about The
French Connection: It’s just a spectacular piece of entertainment, despite its
shopworn composite parts made up of drugs, the fuzz and a bunch of bad dudes.
This fact makes it a unique entry into the fraternity of Best Picture films. It
isn’t some deep character study. It’s not some lush, period drama. It’s by and
large devoid of any universal insight that shades the truth of human existence.
No, it doesn’t retain any of the hallmarks of a typical Best Picture winning
film. Frankly, it doesn’t give a royal rat’s ass either. Instead, it’s a
smash-and-grab cop drama that isn’t seeking to cause a revolution in that
genre, either. The liberation that comes through a clear-sense of self seems to
benefit The French Connection because it puts the pedal to metal with supreme
confidence, offering an unforgettable ride.

Directed by William Friedkin, noted director behind The
Exorcist, with Gene Hackman in the driver’s seat and Roy Scheider in the
passenger’s seat, The French Connection revved up the Academy, which fueled the
film with eight nominations. The French Connection would eventually drive off
with a nice haul of five golden boys, including the Oscar for Best Picture in
1971. Its victory emerged from the pushing and shoving of a particularly
competitive race that year, which also included A Clockwork Orange and Fiddler
on the Roof both vying for the top honors. Incidentally, it became the first
R-rated film to win Best Picture, with the recently installed rating now
beginning to occupy space on movie posters. Apart from the big cheese, The
French Connection also took home Oscars in several other top-tier categories,
including Best Director and Best Actor for Hackman. While struggling with the
envelope to extract the card with the Best Actor winner’s name on it, presenter
Liza Minnelli breathlessly asked the audience, “Are you all as nervous as I
am?” The answer is, Liza, of course not. We all knew Hackman’s name was on that
card, and deservedly so.

Adapted from Robin Moore’s non-fiction novel, The French
Connection follows a Lincoln Continental lined with unusually pure heroin as
it’s shipped from Marseilles to New York. Accompanying the car is Alain
Charnier, a suave, sophisticated French criminal attempting to set up a deal to
offload the heroin to the mob. Meanwhile, through a series of hunches and
leads, New York narcotic detectives Jimmy “Popeye” Doyle and his partner Buddy
“Cloudy” Russo sniff out Charnier’s trail. But Charnier soon catches wise to
his new shadow and flushes Popeye out into the open in a memorable
cat-and-mouse subway sequence.

Later, after a frustrating stakeout of the drug-laced
Lincoln Continental leads nowhere, Doyle impounds the car and tears it apart
piece by piece convinced it is hosting a stash of drugs. After an exhaustive
effort Doyle and his crew finally discover the heroin tucked away in the body
of the car. Like a puzzle, they reassemble the car to its original condition
and set a tail on it. Charnier eventually takes possession of the car, driving
it out to a remote, abandoned factory where the exchange is made with members of
the mob. Thinking he’s pulled off the deal, a grinning Charnier speeds off
right into a roadblock with Doyle standing there at the helm. A foot chase
between Charnier, Doyle and Russo ensues in a rotted out building, culminating
with Doyle killing a federal agent, mistaking him to be Charnier. Fade to
black.

Many critics have noted the fact that character development
is scant in The French Connection, with Doyle being the only figure who
approaches anything beyond a singular dimension. While I would agree with this
observation, I would also give shine to the idea that the city of New York, as
those in the film know it, is an influential character in and of itself. Its
grungy streets, seedy night spots and wasteland vacant lots exert a hardening
force on each individual, shaping their character. This New York is not the New
York of Annie Hall, The Apartment or Miracle on 34th St. This New
York is frigid and unsympathetic, it’s callous and foul, unmoored by morality
or humanity. It doesn’t play host to heroes. It doesn’t abide them. It doesn’t
let them survive. Their nature is informed by this steely Bitch. It pours ice
into their veins, making them not afraid to pull the trigger or pistol-whip a
suspect for information. Therefore, the cops who make this New York their
companion can never separate themselves from it. This New York has cursed them
to operate on a wavelength that they can’t fully control.

As the film’s central character, Gene Hackman is aces when
it comes to finding this wavelength and grooving right along it. He is neither
a hero nor a villain. He has no apparent destiny. Like a hound, he’s picked up
the scent of the case and is devoted to solving it because that’s what he does.
One gets the impression that Doyle probably couldn’t care less about the drugs.
His interests are exacted on nabbing Charnier because this would complete
playing out some designated role handed out to him in this blighted world. The
final scene highlights the extent to which this is true when Doyle accidentally
shoots a federal officer also working the case. The wake of this tragedy only
registers on Doyle’s radar as a source of frustration; disappointed that this
guy got in the way, allowing the other guy to get away.

It’s a delight to watch Hackman grab this role by the throat
and own it from the crown to the ground. There doesn’t exist a single ounce of
hesitation in his performance as the pig-pie hat wearing, vulgar, stone-cold detective.
Hackman excels at being able to generate a sense of unpredictability; a
loose-cannon nature that is shaky as it rides the rails of a character’s
determination. In Det. Doyle, Hackman has found the ideal sandbox for his
talents to play in.

Favorite Line: I’m
going to break rank here and forgo a favorite line for a favorite moment that had
no dialogue. At one point in the film, Doyle is pursuing Charnier through the
crowded streets. Charnier enters a subway station, boards a train and then gets
off at the last second, forcing Doyle back onto the platform in totally
conspicuous manner. Charnier does this a second time just to toy with Doyle.
But on the third time, he eludes Doyle and his boards the train, making his
escape. As the train pulls away, Charnier gives Doyle a smug little smile and
wave, rubbing his victory right in Doyle’s face.

The best moment of the film comes at the end after Charnier
has collected his cash from the mob in the heroin deal. As he gleefully speeds
off, his celebration comes to a screeching halt in front a police barricade
with Doyle out in front, who returns the gesture to Charnier by giving him a
smug little smile and a wave. Boom!

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Before I launch into my review of Patton, I have a
confession to make. Several years ago my sister purchased a copy of Patton on
VHS for me as a Christmas present. Frankly, I was a little disappointed. It
looked like a boring movie from the 1970s. And I felt like it was kind of a
wasted Christmas present from a sister who normally knocks it out of the park. So
I actually took it back and exchanged it for something else. I can’t even
remember what I exchanged it for. But watching Patton and understanding what an
incredible film it really is has unleashed a small measure of youthful guilt to
bubble to the surface for this misdemeanor against good gift giving. I’m not
one who can’t own up to their mistakes. So Kirsten if you’re reading this, a
tip of the hat to you for your good taste that I’m now just catching up to.

Anyway, if you have not previously seen Patton, and are
therefore under the guise that it is just some Hollywood production of a WWII
epic, you would find yourself in the company of a grievous mistake on par with a
night of drunken partying with your boss’s daughter on the same beach where
they filmed Jaws. Yes, yes, it is a colossal story set against the backdrop of
WWII, but the real root cause animating the film’s epic nature is the character
study of one helluva complex man: General George S. Patton. Throughout the
course of watching the list of Best Picture winning films, a short list of
performances stand out to me as being so monumental that it feels as though the
actor bringing the character to life was wholly and completely destined to play
that role. The few that immediately come to mind are Vivien Leigh in Gone with
the Wind, Charlton Heston in Ben-Hur and Paul Schofield in A Man for All Seasons.
To the top of this selection I would place George C. Scott for his performance
as Patton. Scott is such a singular force on screen that his portrayal propels
the entire film forward with a jet stream of prima donna hubris, a brilliant
military mind, the tireless warrior’s appetite and a staunch patriotic
sensibility. It’s the type of roll that would have easily bucked off other
actors in possession of a legitimate talent. Yet, Scott rides this bull with
such aplomb that he may as well be astride a calm mare on a Sunday ride through
the park. To me, few things in life are as exhilarating to experience as when
watching a film where actor and role are so seamlessly conjoined that the
character seems to claim temporary reincarnation through the performance.

Directed by Franklin J. Schaffner, who is perhaps best known
for directing the original entry into The Planet of the Apes franchise, Patton
of course starred the inimitable George C. Scott. The film is not named Patton
for nothing, as he is about the only figure to consistently appear on screen.
The only other main character given any significant amount of screen time is
General Omar Bradley, played by the always reliable Karl Malden. The film
invaded the Oscar punditry’s columns and commentary with a towering 10
nominations, eventually taking home seven victories, including the Oscar for
Best Picture in 1970. At any point, certainly in retrospect, it seems downright
grotesque to consider any other scenario except one in which Scott is award the
Oscar for Best Picture. But in the days, weeks leading up to the big night a
victory for Scott became a passionately debated topic due to the revelation
that he would refuse to accept the award, should he win. Opposing viewpoints on
the matter set up encampments to debate why Scott should or shouldn’t be kept
out of the winner’s circle that year. Citing contempt for the Academy’s voting
rules and for artistic competition in general, Scott pulled a no-show at the
ceremony that night, becoming the first actor to refuse the honor. Boom!

The film follows the career of General George S. Patton
during the latter years of WWII, meandering through the various military
campaigns he commanded throughout North African and Europe. Despite the fact
that war is the engraved backdrop of the entire narrative, Patton is less a war
film and more a character portrait of a brilliant, but flawed individual able
to flourish under the cacophonies of battle. Patton conducts himself as though
life were a stage and all the people merely players: He navigates every
situation with a flamboyance girded by a sense of destiny; he devours every
opportunity to deliver a rousing speech slathered with mustard and relish; he
is constantly jockeying for the military spotlight. In short, he is a man with
a slight God complex who views himself existing on a different plane, parallel
to, but ultimately detached from the realm of time.

Like all brilliant individuals, Patton proves to be his own
worst enemy. His leviathan level of swagger is simultaneously his greatest
asset and his Achilles’ heel. It fueled his talents for devising military
strategy and for inspiring men to lose their fear in the face of the monster.
Yet, this other-worldly sense of self generated an impatience for the
diplomatic responsibilities associated with being a military leader, especially
in an increasingly political world, which often served to remind Patton that he
was a mere mortal. It’s a scenario that illustrates one of life’s more puzzling
ironies that superior intellect often goes hand in hand with an inability to
interact especially well with people existing outside of a narrow tract. In
relation to Patton, the film highlights one famous example of this irony, where
he is touring a hospital to visit those wounded in battle. In the hospital, he
encounters a shell-shocked soldier who Patton accuses of simply being a coward,
enraging him to the point where he assaults the soldier, threatening to shoot
him. The incident derails his career, benching him from being a direct
participant during the Allied invasion of Europe.

In a particularly prescient observation, a Nazi researcher
tasked with studying Patton’s character remarks to his superiors that the end
of the war will mark the end of Patton because battle is what provides
lifeblood to the man. If Patton the film is the portrait of an extraordinary
personality, then this insight is the frame around its borders. The only thing
that appears to await Patton in the wings of battle is loneliness. Outside of
the military sphere, he seemingly has no personal life: no other interests,
family or friends are mentioned. His closest confidantes are his aids, but
those relationships are set to expire with the conclusion of the war. Patton
clearly eats, sleeps and breathes military life, displaying an inexhaustible amount
of knowledge in the field of military history. It’s the only thing that coaxes
his interests out to play. This fact leaves one to feel that the film
ultimately ends on a tragic note, as the final shot shows Patton walking off
into a deserted horizon. It reinforces this notion that even the highest
professional accomplishments seem to fade as they are incapable of filling the
void within each individual.

This is in stark contrast to the film’s famous opening shot
of Patton delivering an unapologetically bloodthirsty speech to his troops in
front of a gargantuan-sized American flag. This scene is a wildly entertaining
display of Scott’s ownership over the role of Patton. Scott’s ability to
deliver vulgarity with a poet’s touch, coupled with his imposing stature,
create this almost hypnotic charisma that draws you in to the point where you
don’t feel you are watching performance anymore. Hell, by the end of the
opening scene I wanted to go kick some Nazi ass. Simply put, Scott is just
awesome to watch in the role of Patton. The director, Franklin Schaffner, was
wise to let this film be a one-man show and not muck it up with irrelevant
side-plots and supporting characters. Scott is more than equal to the task of
carrying the entire picture by himself, which is apropos to the way Patton
seemed to prefer things.

In reviews of Patton, there is a scant amount of ink
highlighting how much Scott’s look added to enlivening the part. What a
magnificent face for a role like this. The man slightly resembles an old wise
bald eagle, complete with a steely stare that can see right through to your
soul. His graying hair looks like a tuft of glorious feathers crowning a face chiseled
by war and death. And his nose! What an incredible nose; mounted on that face
like some sort of a prominent beak, bestowing him with grace and strength
befitting an American general.

In his review of Patton, the late Roger Ebert succinctly
summed up what perhaps made Scott the perfect candidate to play Patton over
other major Hollywood stars offered the role. “It
is one of those sublime performances in which the personalities of the actor
and the character are fulfilled in one another. … Scott was big, powerful,
lonely, brilliant, a drinker, a perfectionist who stood so far outside
Hollywood circles it was a foregone conclusion he would not turn up at the
Academy Awards. In his career he sought out challenges like the plays of
Shakespeare, O'Neill and Miller, in the same way Patton hungered for battle.
Like Patton, he was a man without a purpose when he was offstage.” I concur Mr.
Ebert. I concur, sir.

Favorite Line: I’ve selected the entire opening speech because it contains too many
great lines to choose from. But I’ve taken the liberty to bold some of the
highlights in this worthwhile monologue.

Now, I want you to
remember that no bastard ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by
making the other poor dumb bastard die for his country. Men, all this stuff
you’ve heard about America not wanting to fight, wanting to stay out of the
war, is a lot of horse dung. Americans traditionally love to fight. All real
Americans love the sting of battle. When you were kids, you all admired the
champion marble shooter, the fastest runner, the big league ball player, the
toughest boxer. Americans love a winner and will not tolerate a loser.
Americans play to win all the time. I wouldn’t give a hoot in hell for a man
who lost and laughed. That’s why Americans have never lost and will never lose
a war. Because the very thought of losing is hateful to Americans.

Now, an Army is a team. It lives, eats, sleeps, fights as a team. This
individuality stuff is a bunch of crap. The
bilious bastards who wrote that stuff about individuality for the Saturday
Evening Post don’t know anything more about real battle than they do about
fornicating.

We have the finest food and equipment, the best spirit and the best men in the
world. You know, by God I actually pity those poor bastards we’re going up
against. By God, I do. We’re not just
going to shoot the bastards, we’re going to cut out their living guts and use
them to grease the treads of our tanks. We’re going to murder those lousy
Hun bastards by the bushel.

Now, some of you boys, I know, are wondering whether or not you'll chicken out
under fire. Don't worry about it. I can assure you that you will all do your
duty. The Nazis are the enemy. Wade into them. Spill their blood. Shoot them in
the belly. When you put your hand into a bunch of goo that a moment before was
your best friend's face, you'll know what to do.

Now there’s another thing I want you to remember. I don’t want to get any
messages saying that we are holding our position. We’re not holding anything.
Let the Hun do that. We
are advancing constantly and we’re not interested in holding onto anything
except the enemy. We're going to hold onto him by the nose and we're going to
kick him in the ass. We're going to kick the hell out of him all the time and
we're gonna go through him like crap through a goose.

There’s one thing that you men will be able to say when you get back home. And
you may thank God for it. Thirty years from now when you’re sitting around your
fireside with your grandson on your knee and he asks you what did you do in the
great World War II, you won’t have to say, "Well, I shoveled shit in
Louisiana."

Alright now, you sons-of-bitches, you know how I feel. Oh, and I will be
proud to lead you wonderful guys into battle – anytime, anywhere.

Sunday, July 13, 2014

What a difference a year makes. After handing out its top accolade
to Oliver, the first G-rated film to receive the distinction, the award swung
to the opposite end of the ratings spectrum, landing in the hands of Midnight
Cowboy, the first, and only, X-rated film to win Best Picture. (It has since
been downgraded to an R rating, by the way). I guess chalk up this complete
reversal of tastes to the fact that it was the swinging sixties baby and things
had a way of turning on a dime.

Up front, I have to say, I wasn’t over the moon for Midnight
Cowboy. It has some undeniable charisma; a louche style, giving it a certain
type of depressing appeal. But by the time the credits rolled, I felt like I
had watched a talented athlete only just near the mark of their potential.
Actually, it felt more like watching a talented athlete inexplicably sabotage
their own talent just enough for them to stumble and not elevate to something more
exceptional. Midnight Cowboy is that athlete. It’s good, to anyone paying close
attention, but it’s obvious there is something better inside that never manages
to break free; that’s being held back. I can’t quite put my finger on what that
something better is, exactly. If I had to attempt to articulate it, I would say
that Midnight Cowboy is slightly episodic; it falls in and out of these sleazy
situations, which never quite stitch together. They’re distractions. As a
result, the film meanders away from what should have been developed: the tragic
friendship between Joe Buck and Ratso Rizzo. Their failures, their loneliness,
their pain gives the film its emotional muscle. Unfortunately for the viewer,
it isn’t exercised enough.

Directed by John Schlesinger, Midnight Cowboy stars Jon
Voight and Dustin Hoffman, who were still writing the early chapters of their careers
upon the film’s release. Overall, the film lassoed seven nominations,
eventually roping in three wins, including the Oscar steer for Best Picture.
Schlesinger also took home the golden guy for Best Director, the zenith of a
resume home to an eclectic list of films, which unfortunately included the
Madonna crapfest The Next Best Thing. Apart from acting nods for both Voight
and Hoffman, Sylvia Miles also snagged a nod as an aging call girl for one of
the shortest performances ever to be recognized, clocking in at around five
minutes. And about three of those minutes of her performance are spent changing
channels on a television set with her backside. Inexplicably, the film’s theme
song “Everybody’s Talkin’” apparently didn’t live up to Academy standards, as
it was passed over in the nomination leg of the race, despite the fact that it
went on to win a Grammy award, when winning a Grammy award actually mattered. As
mentioned earlier, Midnight Cowboy’s biggest trivia claim to fame is that it
became the first and only X-rated film to garner the Academy’s top honor,
making it also likely to be the last film ever to do so, as the X-rating no
longer exists.

Midnight Cowboy follows the ambitions of Joe Buck, a
small-town Texas dishwasher with dreams of striking it rich in the Big Apple as
a hayseed hustler, wooing rich, older women into keeping him. With more
wide-eyed naiveté in his countenance than Pinocchio, Joe dresses up in cowboy
shtick and buys a one-way ticket east. New York quickly exposes Joe’s lack of
street smarts, rapidly draining his pockets and spitting him out on the streets
with only his cowboy hat and fringe suede jacket. He eventually finds refuge in
a condemned building with Enrico Salvatore “Ratso” Rizzo, a seedy, crippled
conman who had previously hustled Joe out of 20 clams.

After resolving their differences, the two form an unlikely
bond, slightly reminiscent of George and Lennie in Of Mice and Men, only
somewhat in reverse with the larger, goofier Joe taking care of the more
streetwise Ratso. The two stumble through a random series of encounters,
including a trippy Warhol-esque party, which ultimately leads them nowhere
financially. As Ratso’s health begins to rapidly deteriorate in the cold, New
York winter, he begs Joe to take him to Florida to fulfill his conman fantasies
of working over the population of bored retirees with nothing but disposable
cash. In a desperate attempt to raise the funds to finance the journey south,
Joe picks up an older man from a gay bar, robbing him of his cash to finance
the purchase of two bus tickets. En route to the Sunshine state, Ratso succumbs
to his frailties and dies an insignificant death in the arms of Joe.

Both Voight and Hoffman are crisp in the leading roles.
Their physical disparities cut such an iconic image as they stroll about the
dirty streets of New York side by side. Their slumped silhouettes visualize the
effects that take hold of men when luck has been a stranger for too long. The
friendship that is borne out of their loneliness and desperation feels
unexpected, but natural, which I think speaks to the wonderful
chemistry that Voight and Hoffman were able to find with each other. In fact, I
would lay the majority of the credit for the film’s success at their feet.
Their performances made the material far better than it existed on paper, which really heightened this sense that much of the film’s potential remained
caged.

I say this because Voight and Hoffman created this complex
and tragically fascinating friendship; a pairing which felt like it resided
outside of the hourglass, as though it existed on some timeless, classic plane.
Yet the film continually lowers them in and out of these random, time-sensitive
situations, like the swinging Warhol party, that anchor the story down in its
era. Instead of seeming like an enduring portrait of damaged souls struggling
to achieve urban survival, it feels mostly like a cultural snapshot of two guys
coping with the hard knocks of New York City. For some shortsighted reason, the
story keeps veering off into this territory where the dramatic air is much thinner.
But almost by some sheer force of resistance, the magnetic performances of
Hoffman and Voight attempt to overpower this mistake, and steer the film’s
focus away from the distractions of 1960s New York. But unfortunately, the
consequence of this push and pull is that the film feels like an uneven
experience.

Where this back and forth is most glaringly felt is during a
series of short flashbacks of Joe’s childhood. We learn that as a tyke, Joe’s
grandmother raised him after his mother abandoned him. However, his
grandmother’s vibrant sexuality attaches these flashback scenes with all kinds
of open-ended interpretations that would have no doubt delighted Freud. But
instead of being compelling or useful by way of character development, they
come off as expository noise. The irony is that they don’t even feel necessary
to understanding the character of Joe Buck. In a way, Jon Voight’s face has a
way of communicating volumes about Joe that none of these flashback scenes were
capable of achieving. I think therein lies the main problem with Midnight
Cowboy: The story needed to be told with a greater sense of simplicity, instead
of adding various soap opera elements that feel like a shorthanded attempt to
make it a more “serious” project. I think a little more faith in its characters
and a better understanding of the story would have unleashed the film’s inner
masterpiece out.

Favorite Line: Of
course the best line from Midnight Cowboy is the iconic line shouted by Dustin
Hoffman when Joe and Ratso and crossing the street, with the latter almost
meeting the front end of a taxi cab that comes to a screeching halt. In
response, Ratso slams his hand down on the hood, shouting, “I’m walking here!
I’m walking here!”